You pause.
You hate how “sir” sounds in his mouth, like he’s rehearsed obedience to survive.
You hate even more that you’ve benefited from a world that teaches kids to bow.
“You’ll get food when you’re done,” you add.
Then you hear yourself and correct it, because control isn’t always virtue.
“You’ll get food now,” you say, and you surprise yourself again.
Nando looks at you like you’ve grown a second head.
You ignore him and gesture toward the side entrance.
“Come,” you say, keeping it brisk, as if kindness needs to wear a uniform to be allowed inside you.
In the kitchen, the smell of bread and coffee hits the air like a warm slap.
Ana Clara’s eyes lock onto the fruit bowl as if it’s a mirage.
Pedro stands rigid, hands behind his back, trying not to stare.
You open the fridge and pull out leftovers you never thought of as luxury until now.
Chicken. Rice. Soup. A loaf of bread still sealed.
You pack it into a paper bag, then add water bottles and a small box of cookies you didn’t even remember buying.
Pedro’s throat moves when he swallows.
He doesn’t reach. He doesn’t beg.
He just whispers, “For Mariana?”
You nod. “For Mariana,” you say, and you hand him the bag.
His fingers shake when they close around it, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.
Ana Clara blurts, “She’s really sick.”
Her voice cracks on really, and the word cuts through you sharper than any insult ever has.
You look at her, and you realize she’s not asking for sympathy. She’s asking if you can handle the truth.
“How sick?” you ask, quiet.
Ana Clara glances at Pedro like she’s checking if she’s allowed to speak.
Pedro nods once.
“She’s hot,” Ana Clara says. “She shakes. She talks like she’s dreaming. Yesterday she didn’t get up at all.”
